Safe & Sound
by Stacy Dustin
Summary: Feliciano Vargas, selected to be District Four's tribute for Panem's 71st annual Hunger Games, never intended to fall in love in the arena, but the Hunger Games never goes quite as one plans. ItaGer


The world seems to be moving in slow motion as I tighten my bow-tie. I barely notice the fly that, on any other day, would be pulling at my last nerve as it buzzes around the bedroom window. My brother, though standing right by my side, seems to be a thousand miles away. I can't seem to focus on his words, but I know that he's trying to offer me words of encouragement. Everything sounds muffled. The wind chimes on the front porch seem to echo around in my head for a while as I stare at myself in the mirror. I'm eighteen years old, and this is my last reaping. I shouldn't be scared, so why does the person gazing back at me have the demeanor of a frightened little boy?

As I stand motionless, taking in the detail of my slightly wrinkled shirt, my brother puts his hand on my shoulder. At this, I'm pulled back into reality. I turn my head and immediately my eyes lock with my brother's. He stares back for a few moments before looking me up and down. "You seem ready enough," he says quietly. "We should get Pa."

I bite my lip and nod. Our father is bound to be experiencing a mix of emotions at the moment. This is the last reaping he will ever have to experience as a father. In a way I know he almost feels relieved. Though I also know that he's nervous. The apprehension will never really subdue until the names are called, and mine isn't one of them.

As my brother begins to leave the room, I start after him and instantly almost stumble over my own feet. He turns back around as I regain my footing and I look down at the ground. "Lovino I don't want to do this."

"I get that," he mumbles. He grabs my arm so that I have something to hold on to as we cross into the living room. "But you have to. This is your last reaping Feliciano. The chance of your name being called is very slim, and when it's all over, you'll never have to worry about it again."

"Slim but not impossible," I say to my feet. Lovino doesn't reply.

My father is gazing out the window when we walk into the living room. Lovino and I stand quietly next to each other as we wait for him to turn around and acknowledge us. Eventually, Pa looks over at me. I look back at him and it takes everything in me not to lose control and break down in tears. I have to be strong for him.

Taking a deep breath, he walks over to me and practically scoops me up in his arms. His warm body feels welcoming to me. I don't get to experience his hugs much, and I'm all too upset when he finally lets go of me. "You're going to be okay."

I can't think of a response. I just stand still and let my father look me over. This might be one of the last times we're ever together, safe at home. The three of us.

Pa looks me in the eyes and says with a steady voice, "It's time to go."

The air outside is humid. The roads are full of people as they solemnly walk their kids up to the heart of District Four: The town square.

The town square itself is even more crowded than the streets around it. There are lines of kids; ages ranging from twelve to eighteen, and all of them are standing in single file, waiting to get their finger pricked. I look over at Lovino and Pa before taking my place in the line of eighteen-year-olds. As I stand there, I can't help but overhear a mother as she sends her child into a line.

"They're just going to prick your finger, okay?" The skinny brunette bends down to plant a kiss on her daughter's forehead. "It won't hurt one bit."

"Yes it will!" The girl replies, tears welling up at her eyes. "Where's Jinni? Make her come with me!"

"She has to go to the line for people her age, but she's going to find you once she's out."

I watch as the mother gets swept up by a crowd of people, leaving the sniffling little girl to wait in line with the other twelve-year-olds. I can't help but remember my first reaping. Lovino had been by my side as much as he could throughout the whole process. I just hope that this little girl's sister does the same.

By now it's my turn to get my finger pricked.

"Finger."

I hold my hand out so that the medic can punch a tiny little needle to my finger. I grit my teeth as a drop of blood squeezes its way out of the prick.

The medic hurries me along once he's done and I quickly find myself being guided into a group of eighteen-year-old boys by a white-clad peacekeeper. I recognize almost everyone in this group from school. No one talks. We all just stand and wait for this all to be over with. After today we'll never have to deal with this again.

It's about another half hour before people start walking onto the big stage at the head of the square. I recognize Shaundi Campbell amongst them. So she's going to be this year's mentor.

I watch as she takes her seat next to a man dressed in the most obnoxious shade of orange. Eiríkur Helgarson. He looks unnaturally glossy from head to toe. Tilted on top of his head sits what appears to be an entire birds' worth of feathers, all arranged into a colorful spiral that branches out a foot in each direction. His hair is still the same usual silvery grey, and I can see his twinkling purple eyes from where I stand. Here in District Four, he sticks out like a sore thumb.

After a few minutes of cheerfully speaking with the people around him, Eiríkur stands up. The people who were still standing on stage now take their seats, and the whole town square begins to quiet down. By the time he clops over to center stage in his polished, white high heeled boots, you could hear a pin drop in the crowd below him.

"Hello, hello, everyone!" Eiríkur chirps into the microphone. His voice echoes off the walls of the town square's quaint little market buildings. "Welcome, to District Four's reaping of the 71st annual Hunger Games!"

He beams at the crowd, but the gesture is not returned by a single person. Smile still on his face, he does a small little clap and gestures to the big screen above his head.

What follows is the same video that is played at every reaping. It is a short little speech, accompanied by clips and pictures, about why the Hunger Games are held, why they were created, and the honor of being crowned victor. It makes me sick every time I watch it.

After the video is over, and Panem's national anthem is played, Eiríkur grabs hold of the microphone once more. "Due to tradition, I am going to start this off by pulling the name of a lucky little lady!"

I look over at the girl's section of the clearing. People are gazing at the ground, clutching their sisters, biting their nails, or doing anything they can to stop themselves from having a mental breakdown.

Eiríkur walks over to a big glass bowl full of slips of paper, and written on them are all the names that belong to the girls of District Four. He sticks his hand in, swishes it around a bit, and plucks up an unlucky candidate.

Once he's back in front of the microphone, he holds the piece of paper in front of his face and unfolds it. When it opens, he looks at it, smiles, and parts his lips.

"Yekaterina Braginskaya."

A small gasp breaks through the silence of the crowd. Everyone, including myself, looks over in the direction it came from.

A curvy, pretty girl with short, dusty blonde hair stands staring at Eiríkur. Her mouth is parted open in disbelief as she frantically glances around at her peers with pleading eyes. She takes one step forward and suddenly stops, as if she can't will herself to smoothly walk to the stage.

"Well? Come, come, sweetheart," Eiríkur coos down to her. "Hurry now."

His smile never fades.

Eventually, a peacekeeper makes his way into the crowd and grabs her arm. She seems to know better than to struggle, so she solemnly walks with him up to the steps of the stage. There he leaves her, and she looks at the steps for a moment before climbing them. Once she reaches the top, Eiríkur takes her hand and leads her to the microphone.

"So. Yekaterina. Did I say that right?" Eiríkur asks her brightly. Yekaterina's only response is a nod. She looks down. "Okay, Yekaterina is a beautiful name," Eiríkur squeezes Yekaterina's hand."How old are you?"

Without looking up, Yekaterina answers him. "Seventeen."

A look of delight crosses Eiríkur's face, and he leads Yekaterina over a few steps to the right. After she's situated in the right spot, he strolls back to the microphone and grins.

"And now for the young men."

After plucking another piece of paper from the boys' glass bowl and taking his place back at center stage, he unfolds it. My heart beats out of my chest and I turn around to look at my family. Lovino is already looking back at me, but Pa has his hands clasped together and his eyes squeezed shut. I supposed I've lingered too long, because before I get the chance to turn back around, Eiríkur reads the last tributes name and I watch as my brother's face contorts into a terrified look of disbelief.

"Feliciano Vargas."


End file.
